plus
by opiax
Summary: a series of one-shots/vignettes from scully's pov set to the tracklist of "(plus sign)" by ed sheeran
1. the a team

i. breathing in snowflakes

the girl standing across from them could not be more than twenty. she has bleached-blond hair that matched the color of her lips and that is stiff from too much hair spray or too many bleachings or both. she was pale and shivering in the gently falling snow of the late virginia winter with a thin, ratty raincoat and holey gloves her only sources of warmth. crystal clouds, caught in the light from the streetlamp above them, formed in the air with every exhale from the girl's lungs. her voice is raspy from the sting of the february wind or, she thinks, (more likely) from other, less natural substances that leave scars and burns on their way through her nasal cavity. the girl is beautiful, but her beauty is wasting away into an ashen, pallid face with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. she can hear loose change jingling in the girl's pocket with every strong gust of wind. she had recently required some less-noisy currency from the two agents in exchange for information about their murder victim, a friend of hers, whose death had left this more lucrative street corner vacant and its nightly visitors quite deprived.

as scully observed the girl while mulder made conversation (after all, he was more the type the girl was looking to entertain than she was), she couldn't help but see herself reflected back at her. this girl pleased men for a living and scully made a habit of never aiming to please men, and yet, maybe there was one man she did prostitute herself for, just not in the literal since of the term. she lets her gaze wander over to mulder and she watches the movements of his lips as he questions the girl. those lips, and what comes out of those lips, have bent her to his will more times than she cares to admit. she threw herself into anything he asked her to do, sometimes without question, sometimes with multiple objections, but always she would acquiesce. she was fiercely loyal, probably to a fault and her loyalty had left her body pale and cold and dying from cancer, her face had been identical to the young girl's in front of her; her loyalty had also rewarded her with a dead sister, the alienation (ha, what an ironic word) of most of her friends, and a home in a musty, cramped basement office. she noted that all of these things had come free of charge when she bought in to his cause. some days she felt like all she had was a thin, ratty raincoat and holey gloves to keep the cold and darkness at bay. like the girl in front of her, she had her own drug that she was quickly discovering that she couldn't live without. he was her drug of choice, and although she had tried quitting him and walking away several times before, she always came back to him, just when her withdrawal became too painful to bear.

mulder's voice pulled her from her daydream. "hey, scully, are you coming?" the young girl had walked away, and mulder was halfway to their rental car before she realized she was still standing on the sidewalk. "it's too cold out her, scully. let's grab some food and call it a night." and she turns and follows him like she always will. she's stuck with him, heroin that walks next to her instead of filling her bloodstream.

as she gets in the passenger seat, she sees the girl standing a little way off, sans jacket and gloves, breathing in the snowflakes like they were her source of strength and dignity. strangely, she felt connected to the girl through the falling snow, and before she closed the door, she inhaled deeply, letting the snowflakes baptize her face and the oxygen drown her lungs. she exhales as she closes the door and she registers mulder beside her, and his presence is a comfort, not a curse or a weight like most drugs become over time. maybe he is not a drug after all, but something more pure and cleansing.

she looks at him and he smiles at her and she thinks, he is the snow that falls through the night, quiet and unassuming, and in the morning, the ground is bathed in bright white that blinds your eyes with its perfection and beauty. he is not her drug, no; he is the new fallen snow in which she places all of her angels that cannot fly.


	2. drunk

A/N: TRIGGER WARNINGS, please read with caution if you think you might be affected. If you would like to be aware of the content before you read, skip to the end of the chapter, where I have listed the triggers included. Also, the rest of my A/N is at the end, so that I can discuss the content more freely.

Spoilers for Seasons 7 & 8, although if you haven't seen them by now, I'm surprised you're not already spoiled...

ii. i hate what didn't kill me

4:08 am

choking sobs. tears streaking cheeks like rain on a windowpane. heaving breaths. hands running up and down arms for comfort (like he used to do). "everything's okay. you're safe." everything is not okay. he's not here. he's probably not safe. red and puffy eyes. tears stopped but still swimming in pools of blue. one more deep breath for strength. closed eyes. inhaling his fading scent from her unwashed pillowcase. falling back into oblivion with alarming ease with a palm pressed to her abdomen.

6:12 am

the first alarm went off at 6:00. the second alarm went off at 6:10. she never used to use the snooze feature on her alarm clocks, typically rising before the first alarm ever punctured the bubble of early-morning peace. that was before his disappearance. before waking up every two hours to nurse him and before waking up each hour in between by nightmares or by a sudden urge to review his file or both. she never used to need the snooze button because she was well rested, but she also used to be eager to face the upcoming day, to find out what new case or theory would be presented to her when she arrived at the office (or sometimes before she reached the office, if she was being honest). but that was before she lost him, before his case was put on the back burner, and before she was forced to work with a new partner. at 6:13, she finally silences the second alarm, and rolls over onto her side of the bed to wait for 6:20 to obstreperously announce its presence.

7:27 am

she finally reached the office nearly half an hour late, keeping her three-week tardy streak alive (points for consistency, at least). she never used to be tardy, even on days when the last thing she wanted to do was grace the office with her presence, she was not late. it was unprofessional, and she knew that, but somehow, lately she couldn't bring herself to care. when she did finally darken the doorway of the basement office, he barely even glanced up at her. after the first week of consistent tardiness, he had stopped asking her what was wrong, if she was okay, or any question, really. she never answered him anyway (if she did answer, she practically snapped his head off for butting into her life like he knew her, so really, it was better for the both of them this way).

she sat at her desk, heavily, already exhausted from her morning routine of dragging herself out of bed, retching from morning sickness, bathing, and making herself look like she hadn't been awake for most of the night.

"skinner called down this morning," doggett's gruff voice punctured the heavy silence. "said he needs you to perform an autopsy for another case after lunch today." she spared him a glance and a short nod to indicate she had understood his words, then busied herself staring unseeing at their most recent expense report that should have been filed yesterday.

12:26 pm

she looks down at the man on the table. his messy black hair reminded her of his, which made her mad at herself for seeing him in a dead man's face (it happens more and more often these days – he's the dark-haired dead man on the table, the quirky suspect they're interviewing, the tall, lanky man she sees rounding a corner on the sidewalk). she closes her eyes to regain her composure, then feels around the cart for the familiar weight of the scalpel. when she opens her eyes, she doesn't see him, but she feels guilty now for pushing the thought of him away, when she so desperately wants to cling to his memory.

deep sigh to steady shaking hands. blinking back tears threatening to breach their gates. "i'll begin with the y-incision." pushing the scalpel through the chest of a dead man (who is not not not him). catching a bone with the blade. shaking hands unable to compensate. cutting through latex, then skin, then a sharp sting of pain.

all of her attention turns to the gash she carved into her palm. feeling the pain, stopping the blood, keeping the cadaver uncontaminated. every thought is focused on herself and on not soiling her workspace or the body up until the moment she tied off the gauze that now encircled her hand with enough pressure to stop her blood flow almost entirely (not exactly the best first-aid job she's ever done, but whatever, she thinks). she looks at the scalpel and looks at her bandaged palm and realizes that she hasn't thought of him in almost a full two minutes. as far as records go, this one is her personal best.

5:45

doggett tells her that he is taking off early (wow, a whole fifteen minutes, she thinks bitterly). he closes the door and she is alone. again. she is always alone. except for the life growing inside her, which at this point, she doesn't really count as company. it doesn't even kick yet. she doesn't even know if it is a he or a she. he left her a precious gift, part him-part her, and she calls it "it." this is all i wanted for so many years, and now that i have it, i'm miserable. i'm a disgusting excuse for a mother. with me as a mom, and a non-existent dad, this baby is off to a great start. she swipes angrily at her eyes as more stray tears begin to fall.

she is always angry and always sad and she hasn't eaten anything since the half-cup of whipped yogurt she managed to keep down at lunch and she's tired of being angry and sad and she's going to be a horrible mother and he's not here he's gone she can't find him and when she sliced her skin open she didn't think and didn't feel anything other than concentrated pain and she has a letter opener in her drawer and she just wants to not feel everything all at once.

just once, just for a second, i want to not feel anything other than tangible, healable, physical pain.

eyes swimming in tears from sadness and guilt and shame. steady hands gripping the letter opener (not like her shaking hands in the morgue). a doctor's eye finding the place to cause pain but not to terminate life. pressure. searing pain. all thoughts turn to stopping pain. crimson liquid bathing a porcelain wrist. realization that her doctor's eye was blinded by sadness and guilt and shame streaming from her eyes. a door opening. cotton-stuffed ears hearing frantic yells. numbed nerves feeling hands catching her drained body before it hit the ground. (mulder? she maybe says). blackness, sweet nothing.

9:51

beeping. bright light. acute throbbing pain in her wrist. muted throbbing pain in her palm. shame and guilt forming in her mind. hospital, she muses. a place she knows so well, she falls into her waking-up routine: breathe, count to five, prepare eyes for blinding lights, listen to the machines, identify pain locations, count to five, open eyes, let eyes adjust to light, count to five, locate him. she choked back a sob when she was unable to complete the last step and instead found doggett in a plastic chair by the door, as if he was ready to leave as soon as she came to.

"dana," he sounds relieved but frustrated. she refuses to look at him, instead focusing on a water stain on a ceiling tile next to the window. she can tell he wants to ask "what were you thinking" but he decides not to allow himself to be ripped into by a suicidal pregnant woman. "i've never been so happy to have forgotten my keys." so that's why she's alive, she thinks.

"the baby?" she asks, suddenly flooded with another wave of guilt for not thinking of the question sooner.

"the doctors say your baby is perfectly fine," he says. but i'm not so sure with a mother like you, she adds sardonically.

doggett leaves soon thereafter, when it becomes obvious that she has exhausted her willingness to communicate.

she moves her hand to her abdomen and rubs it in soothing circles in an attempt to apologize to her little passenger. "i'm sorry, baby. i don't know what i was thinking. i'm sorry i put you through that. it was pretty scary, huh?" to herself she says, how dare you do something so irrational and reckless because of how you "feel?" it's not just you anymore, you know. he left a precious life inside of you and you almost threw it all away in a moment of selfishness. what would he think if he could see you like this?

she hated herself for what she did, for what she almost lost. the unconquerable dana scully – the ice queen – shattered. she let her emotions and grief and selfishness overthrow her logic and sensibilities. she can see the look of betrayal that he would wear if he were here. she almost took away the one thing he truly cared about in this whole world; the one person he trusts beyond a shadow of a doubt almost became a shadow of a memory.

10:13 pm

she promised herself that when (not if) he is found, he would not be coming home to nothing. she would once again be the scully that he fell in love with – alive, with a body full of life and a heart full of fight, and there would be a little scully-mulder for him to fall in love with as well. a pregnant lover (or a wiggly infant or a wobbling toddler) would be a much better "welcome home" than a dead lover and the memory of what could have been.

**The triggers included in this chapter are depression and attempted suicide.**

A/N: For those of you who do continue to read on and have experienced depression or thoughts of suicide or have actually attempted suicide or have been close to someone who has gone through this, please forgive my inadequacies. I myself have never been affected by the contents of this chapter, but I have attempted to handle it as delicately and honestly as possible. Please do not take offense if I have misrepresented the effects of depression or suicide. However, please feel free to let me know how I can improve my writing on these topics, or how I can better address them.

Also, I hope that I have stuck to the essence of Dana Scully in this chapter. I know that she desperately wants a child and would never do anything intentionally to jeopardize that child's health and well-being. (Although she does get knocked around quite a bit on cases in season 8). I also know that she does not need a man or a significant other to survive, but I also feel that after several months of no Mulder and no leads, that her emotional defenses would begin to falter. And as a doctor, she focuses on healing pain. Her emotional pain is not something that she can physically stitch up and watch it heal. However, when she is faced with a physical injury, she is able to narrow her focus and concentrate on something that she can control and heal.

I would love to hear your thoughts on what you think of this chapter!


	3. uni

iii. you're the only one that knows i lied (u.n.i.)

i walk into my dark apartment after a long day at the hospital. it's not inviting like i hoped it would be when i leased it. its beige walls feel bare and its dark hardwood floors are like ice on my weary feet (who keeps letting me wear five-inch heels to work?). It's too quiet here. back at the house, i could hear birds singing during the day and crickets chirping at sunset. there was wide-open space that made me feel free, like i was able to breathe without a weight in my chest. now, i sigh as i slide off my suit jacket and i don't feel free.

i don't bother turning any lights on as i pad across the apartment to my bedroom, heels in my hand. they're too harsh, like operating room lights, and i've had enough of those today. i miss the sunlight that filtered through the windows of the house that would bathe me in a soft, warm glow as i awoke each morning. i look at my empty bed, and a wave of loneliness washes over me, as i once again lie down alone. i miss the warmth of body heat next to me and the comforting sound of another heart beating in time with mine.

i can distinctly feel the weight of my phone in my hand. i'm not going to call him.

i busy myself with my nightly routine – wash face, apply face mask, brush teeth, turn down the bed, use the bathroom, remove face mask, put on pajamas, let down hair – all the while repeating my new nightly mantra. i'm not going to call him. i'm not going to call him. i'm not going to call him.

when i finally lie down on my side of the bed (funny how habits are hard to break), i think i might die of loneliness. what happened to the hard-nosed, ice queen dana scully that i used to be? how did i let one man get inside me so deeply that i am incapable of rebuilding my walls to keep him out? i guess i could blame it on lack of sleep and a hard, emotionally trying week at the hospital, but i pick up my phone and dial the all-too-familiar number.

he picks up on the sixth ring.

"mulder?"

silence.

"it's me."

silence. and then, "are you okay, scully?" i can practically hear his heart pounding through the phone. oh, wait. that's my own heart.

"i'm fine mulder," oh the ultimate scully-lie that mulder has long since been able to see right through. "i'm sorry. i know i said i wouldn't call you and i asked you to not call me, but i guess i lied."

"i guess you did." he sounds so far away, and i can feel my heart break (again) because i can hear the utter sadness in his voice. that voice that used to charm me with innuendo and proclamations of alien life, and "i love you, scully." the voice i hear on the phone now has none of the color and excitement and love of the voice that fills my memories and dreams.

we listen to each other breathe for a few minutes, and i melt into the familiarity of him.

"look, scully, i have to go." why? i think. but i know why, and i know that i'm the one who is breaking the rules i put in place on the day that i left, and he's the one who's drawn the short end of the stick, again.

"ok, mulder. i'm sorry i called. i won't do it again." i know he knows that was a lie.

"ok."

a beep to signal that the call had been disconnected, then silence again. i am frozen with the phone to my ear and "i miss you" on my lips.

sometime later, i drift off to sleep and dream of little white houses with sun shining through the windows and birds in the trees.


	4. grade 8

iv. the hands of the coroner (grade 8)

it's hard to believe how tiny his hands are. everything about him is tiny, but his hands intrigue her. they are barely bigger than a quarter, with fingers that stretch and contract when they reach for her. his hands know nothing but the softness of his blanket and the warmth of his mother's skin.

she looks at her own hands, holding the miracle that is their son, and thinks of all the things that her hands know: the burn of rope sliding through them as she adjusts the sails off the coast of california as her father shouts instructions from the bow; the sting from powerful skin to skin contact when she discovered her first serious boyfriend had slept with her best friend; the cool, slight weight of a scalpel as she begins yet another autopsy; the internal cold and numbness during her cancer and chemotherapy; the beat of mulder's heart, quickening from steady to erratic and back again each time they make love; the twitch of mulder's hand the day she got him back.

her hands have seen and felt and known pain, grief, and loss, but also happiness, joy, and love. but his hands – his hands know only love, warmth, and safety. and right now, holding her personal miracle, that's all that her hands seem to know, too.


	5. wake me up

v. i know you love shrek (wake me up)

"mulder."

he pretends like he doesn't hear the half-questioning, half-amused way that she has of saying his name. she knows he hears her, though, because he blinks and closes his mouth that had been lulling open in that far-away trance-like state he sinks into when he is engrossed in whatever is on television. it reminds her of how he used to look while pouring over unexplainable case notes in some nondescript motel in the middle of nowhere.

since he seems to be ignoring her presence, she takes in the scene around her with her out-of-practice investigative eye. the room is dark, save for the artificial light flickering from the tv. a pizza box resides, open, on the coffee table, revealing a half-eaten cheese pizza. two paper plates are next to the pizza box, bearing evidence of greasy pizza slices long since eaten. a twelve-ounce bottle of coke is on its side atop one of the paper plates, next to a wadded-up napkin. a half-full sippy cup seems to have been knocked to the floor and is now lying underneath the coffee table. mulder is sitting with his feet on the floor and his elbows on his knees, hands propping up his head as he stares at the tv. their daughter, the spitting image of her father, has her socked feet pressed up against the side of mulder's leg, and she is stretched out, lengthwise, across the couch, fast asleep. there are two green ogres and a donkey moving about on the tv screen. mulder is watching shrek, alone.

"mulder," she says again, and puts her hand on his head. this time he looks up at her, eyes slightly bloodshot, like this is the first time he's noticed her presence. she smiles down at him, gestures to the mess on the coffee table. "what's going on here?"

"father-daughter date night."

she quirks an eyebrow up at him and glances towards their daughter. "looks like the daughter part in that equation is down for the count." she lets the remainder of her thought stay a thought – so _why are you still watching shrek?_ mulder looks down next to him like he just realized his daughter has been asleep for what is probably the better part of the movie. he moves to pick her up ("oh, she's getting heavy" and his knees crack), and scully notes with amusement that he makes sure to pause the movie before he leaves the room.

she likes to tease him when she finds him watching their daughter's movies alone. shrek is his favorite, and she can guess why, though he'll never admit to it. it's a movie about an outcast who relishes his solitude, but sets out on a mission to save his home from the over-reaching government with the help of some whimsical friends, meets a strong-willed red head, falls in love with her, almost loses her, discovers that she's more like himself than he thought, and in the end, they settle down with each other.

she sits down on the couch and smiles. _why wouldn't he love this movie?_

she can hear mulder plodding back down the stairs, and makes herself comfortable. he sits down next to her, greets her with a gentle kiss. "she's out for the night." scully hums her agreement and leans her head on his shoulder. "let's finish the movie, mulder."

he kisses her forehead as his picks up the remote and presses play. "i know you love shrek, scully."


	6. small bump

vi. maybe you were needed up there (small bump)

scully stood in the middle of the half-finished nursery. the extra bedroom of their quaint little house, which just a couple of days ago was a source of happiness and hope, was now just a stark reminder of what she had lost. again. the empty, unused crib stood its ground on the far side of the room, bathed in warm sunlight streaming in through the sheer-curtained window. although it was early, they had fallen in love with the crib and had placed it on sentry duty in the otherwise empty room. it was a promise of more to come; a promise that an inanimate object could never hope to keep. the walls were a soft grey with a basic mural of the solar system occupying one whole wall. above the crib hung a mobile containing small plush aliens, and the ceiling was speckled with glow-in-the-dark stars.

there was nothing else.

scully lay on the floor and looked at the ceiling. mulder once told her that he believed that souls resided in starlight, and she hoped he was right.

she was a mother of three children now, with nothing to show for it except for a half-finished nursery and a few well-worn photographs. maybe she was cursed. maybe it was karma or god or aliens that decided that she would never have a child.

as she lay there, in the middle of the empty room, she felt mulder come in and lay beside her. she closed her eyes, ashamed to look at him and see her grief reflected back at her. he laced their pinkies together, and they lay there for minutes or days or a lifetime, looking at the stars, searching for something that wasn't there.

after a long time, he finally spoke, "maybe he was needed up there."

no, she thought, i needed him. we needed him. he was meant to be here, meant to be ours. as a tear escaped her eye, she said, "you don't believe in god, mulder."

"but you do, and right now, that's enough for me."

she didn't tell him that she had cursed god for this fresh hell he decided to put her through. her faith in him had been tested enough for one lifetime, she thought. "and you believe in the stars, mulder. he's up there somewhere, and maybe that enough for me too."

she released his pinky to grasp his whole hand, and squeezed.

they kept their vigil under the stars until it was dark enough to see the real ones shining through the window.


End file.
